You Better Not Cry: Stories for Christmas (8 page)

Every single thing I had wanted.

I clenched my teeth together to maintain my dour expression.

My mother sat on the sofa and my father was in his rocking chair. They exchanged worried glances at each other across the coffee table. And finally, my mother spoke. “Augusten? I know you had it in your head that you wanted a horse. But we simply do not have the land for a horse. And neither your father nor I know the first thing about them. It’s a huge responsibility and they are terribly expensive, more than cars. I did check. I really did. But there’s just no way we could get you a horse. Mrs. Clayton down the hill told me you are more than welcome to walk down there after school anytime you want next spring and you can visit her horses.”

Now my father interjected. “Son, a horse is just way, way too much animal. If you wanted, say, a goldfish or a turtle? That might be a different story. But even a gold-fish would need care and maintenance.”

My mother cleared her throat.

And my father said, “Yes, that’s right. And the other thing, son, is that when I was given a monkey for Christmas as a little boy, you have to understand, those were very different times. It’s not like it is today. People back then didn’t have the fiscal responsibilities they have—”

“Oh for heaven’s sake, John, he doesn’t need a lecture on economics. Why can’t you just say what we said you would say? Is that so damn difficult?”

“Now, I have to put up with your constant barrage of criticism every damn day of the year. Am I not allowed one goddamned day of the year where there is some peace and quiet? Or are you going to jump down my back over every damn thing I say?”

“Oh, you are such an infantile man, do you know that? This isn’t your goddamned holiday, it’s Augusten’s. Christmas is for children, not sorry, raging alcoholics. Just because you are miserable at the university doesn’t entitle you to terrorize us on Christmas morning.”

As they continued to fight, their voices gradually rising until my mother was eventually screaming at full volume, red-faced and furious, I sat on the floor amid a crinkled, reflective sea of wrapping paper and glittering bows. In my hands was a small, hard plastic case, about the size of a book of matches. Inside the case was a little block of white foam. And pressed into this foam were three tiny gold nuggets.

Finally, I could no longer restrain myself. I jumped up and began to dance around the room. I hopped to my brother’s stocking and unhooked the candy cane. I bit into it, right through the wrapper, which I spit out onto the floor with expert skill.

“Hey, now!” my father called. “That belongs to your brother.”

“He hates candy canes,” I shrieked. “Hates, hates, hates, hates them!” And I jumped up onto the fireplace hearth, bit into the candy cane again and then hopped back down. I ran into the center of the wrapping paper and began to kick and dance. Chunks of torn paper and ribbons landed at my parents’ feet.

They said nothing. They just looked at me.

At last, my mother said, “Augusten, you are just wild. What has gotten into you? I thought you were depressed about not getting your pony.”

I burst into peals of laughter. I threw my head back and clutched the gold to my chest. “Oh my God,” I cried. “I never wanted any
dumb, stinky old horse.
Don’t you people even know me?” I paused to take two more large bites of the cane. And then I explained, “Horses are for girls and glue factories.”

The two of them watched me, wide eyed and nearly terrified.

“Thank you for my presents. You gave me just
exactly
what I wanted. You are officially free to kill each other! Your account has been paid in full for the entire year.” Then I winked at them like one of the hideous, artificial child actors I studied on television and tried, hourly, to replicate in front of the mirror.

My mother’s hand had remained utterly motionless, the lit cigarette between her fingers poised in midair just before her lips. Ash from the end dropped down the front of her bathrobe. She was studying me like I was a cat splayed open on her lab tray.

“Well, well,” she said finally, clapping very slowly, the cigarette parked between her lips, her eyes squinting against the rising smoke. “Bravo, you hateful spoiled thing.”

I beamed at her and curtsied like a girl.

“Now wait one minute here. Are you saying, you changed your mind about the horse?” my father asked. “You didn’t want those gold pens instead, did you son? Because I didn’t get those pens, I was under the impression you were not interested in them once you found out they were for ladies.”

My mother stared at him. “It is a wonder that you are employed by an institution of higher learning. Truly. It is as mysterious as gravity itself.”

“Aw, now what the hell are you talking about, nut-woman?”

I sauntered around them, dropping ribbons and scraps of wrapping paper on top of their heads.

“It means,” my mother said, “that he has played us for fools. But everybody knows,” she said, now turning to look me in the eye, “that it’s the fools who always get the gold in the end.”

I was about to drop a ribbon on her head but her beady, angry eyes made me stop. Instinctively, I pocketed the plastic sleeve containing my gold.

For the remainder of Christmas day, I was stuck in my room with Barry Manilow. My Burl Ives and
Charlie Brown Christmas
albums had been confiscated. I had been stripped of Christmas.

I hadn’t minded so much giving up the walkie-talkies, the candy, or even the LED watch.

It had been the gold that hurt, physically, to part with.

My mother was originally going to let me keep the gold as my only present. Until I smart-mouthed, “
Good,
because it’s the only one I wanted anyway.”

That’s when she pried it from my greedy little fingers and locked me in my room.

It made me so mad I wanted to scream and pound my fists against the hollow-core door. Christmas was in shambles. I supposed I was partially to blame. Or perhaps all to blame.

And the more I thought about it, the more horrible it seemed I had behaved.

And then I went from feeling mad to sorry.

I was released for dinner. My mother had made a ham with cloves on top just the way I liked, except I didn’t get to stick any of the cloves into the top of the ham myself, which was my favorite thing in the world.

When I looked up, she was already looking at me. And she was on the verge of smiling. She held out two fists. “Pick a hand,” she said. I looked from her eyes to her fists, then back at her eyes. There was no clue to be seen in them so I picked the right one.

She extended her hand, rolled the fist over, and uncurled her fingers. A single clove was stuck to the center of her palm.

Happy.

I took the clove and I carefully pressed it into the golden rind of the ham that now sat before me on the platter.

Then she presented me with her other fist and I was surprised.

She waited.

I pointed to the fist.

When she uncurled her fingers, gold was there.

T
HE SUNLIGHT ON
the bed was that clean, white light of winter without any tinge of yellow or gold; it was a lensed, glassy light that erased the shadows. So much pure, diffused sun felt like a shoplifted luxury; like sleeping until eleven on a Monday morning. Even without my glasses, I could make out the heavy drapes and see that they were pulled all the way open.

My first thought,
What a spectacular morning,
was followed immediately by,
But I don’t have drapes
.

Even out of focus, a seven-foot armoire was difficult to miss, especially when it was exactly where my beer-can pyramid should have been.

I blinked.

A marble-topped nightstand was on my left. Once again,
Where was my upside-down white plastic laundry hamper bedside table?
The only marble in my apartment was the threshold at the bathroom door.

There was a delicate, pale green china cup and saucer on top of the nightstand. The cup was half-filled with coffee and two spent Sweet’N Low packets lay on the marble beside the saucer.

The handle of the cup faced away from me, and though I noticed this, I did not consider what it implied.

Beyond these few details, I could not see. Though, I did believe I could make out a
form
on the ...
Was it another bed? Right there on the other side of the nightstand.

One might have reasonably concluded I was not alone in that room.

I had consulted the Magic Eight Ball so frequently as a child, that even at twenty-six, the toy’s ominous answers floated to the surface of my internal window, even when I hadn’t consciously asked a question.
SIGNS POINT TO YES
came to mind.

The bedding had the depth of a snowstorm; I felt buried beneath the richest, most sumptuous mounds of fabric, layers of it: sheet, blanket, duvet, bedspread. All of this, too, was foreign.

There could be no doubt: this was not my futon.

It was with a mounting sense of distress that my eyes traveled once again to the window where I saw now that the drapes and the bedding shared the same design.

That is when I knew that something in the universe itself had, indeed, malfunctioned; I was somewhere color-coordinated.

I scanned the nightstand but did not see the familiar glint of gold—a tiny lighthouse flashing:
HERE ARE YOUR GLASSES
. So I leaned over the edge of the bed and began to spider my hand along the carpeted floor. I’d stepped on enough pairs of glasses to know that mine seemed to prefer the floor.

Blind, and with my head upside down, I glanced toward the foot of the bed and saw a slash of red.
Odd,
I thought.
What could that be?

And in reply, five words burned through the murky blue of Magic Eight Ball juice:
BETTER NOT TELL YOU NOW
.

I thought,
Seriously. What is that?

Finally, my fingers located the glasses tucked into an uncanny little crevice behind the front legs of the night-stand; a spot seemingly designed to attract and retain fallen objects. No human eyes would ever have found them there. I plucked them from the crevice, hoping not to find a bent temple. What I found instead was a pair of lenses so mental-patient filthy and caked with crud, it shocked me that I had been able to see through them. Pretending that that had not been a pubic hair on the left lens but only an exceedingly svelte and limber dust bunny, I fogged the lenses with my breath and attempted to polish them with the edge of the sheet. As I did this, I glanced over at the streak of red and as I stared, more detail was revealed, not unlike a word rising slowly to the surface of my internal Magic Eight Ball.

A band of white
smoke
seemed to surround the red cloud. And there was a luminous, tiny golden star—in the center.

Glasses were amazing.

Because the instant the mysterious floating blob was resolved in clarifying detail, there was no puzzle to what it was. Any kindergarten-aged child in America knew the answer.

The red velveteen, the white fur trim and then the glossy flash of black. Yes, that would be the belt. The sun kicked a highlight off the buckle:
a tiny golden star.

So. If that’s Santa’s suit,
I wondered dangerously,
where might
Santa
be?

For the answer, I needed only to slide my eyes left, to the bed on the other side of the nightstand.

He was probably about sixty-five. A portly gentleman, apparently naked beneath the sheet, he had a full, white beard and silver, somewhat stylish reading glasses perched low on his nose. He was peering at me over the top rim of those glasses, with an amused little smile.

If the notepad next to the telephone was correct, I was naked in the bed next to Santa Claus at the Waldorf Astoria in New York City.

There was even a
twinkle
in his eye. “Ah, bonjour!” he said. “Bonjour.” He took a noisy sip from the cup of coffee.

I removed my glasses and tossed them on the night-stand. Then I dropped my head into my hands and groaned; undoubtedly rather rude as far as gestures went.

This was not happening to me.

YOU MAY RELY ON IT
.

I still felt slightly drunk from the previous night. Of which I could remember absolutely nothing. I did know that a Long Island Iced Tea would have really hit the spot at that moment.

“Aww,” he said. “Not feeling so clear-headed this morning?”

When I slipped my glasses back on and looked at him, he raised his eyebrows.

“Oh, no,” I assured him. “I feel e
xtremely
clear-headed this morning, as a matter of fact. And that’s the problem.”

Oh.

My.

God.

It was apparent that something terrible had happened. I was at the Waldorf with Santa and I didn’t have even the vaguest idea how the hell this came to be. Was it possible my glasses were so filthy I could have mistaken him for a hockey coach?